


poetic tendencies

by sventheolsen



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: Anne Hathaway is Too Gorgeous to look at, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Gay Touching, Rose Knows, Sex, Unresolved Romantic Tension, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-07-14 00:58:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16029701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sventheolsen/pseuds/sventheolsen
Summary: “What, you thought you’re here on business?” Rose, feeling herself mute, nods. Daphne exhales with frustration.“So you thought - I invited you to the Mercer, for fuck’s sake, and on a Saturday night -”  Daphne’s cheeks seem to color a violent, and unerringly attractive shade of red. Rose stares, momentarily transfixed.





	1. Chapter 1

She’s shaking, she can feel it. She’s felt this way exactly three other times; her first show, her first kiss. It’s that virgin excitement that rattles her nerves now, sitting on the forty third floor of the  _ Mercer,  _ opposite the indomitable Daphne Kluger. Sharing drinks, of all the absurd possibilities.

 

“So, how are you doing?” Daphne enquires innocently, turning her back to her, rummaging for drinks in the fridge. 

 

She shifts forward, jostling the drinks with her dress. Daphne looks on, faintly amused.“ _ Rose  _ is doing fantastic. I mean, I found a specific signature, a look that can really speak for the present and past -”

 

Daphne interrupts her. “Yes, you dressed Beyonce, didn’t you?” A touch of admiration colors her voice. “I’d like to do you one day,” Rose paused sipping her drink.

 

Color filled Daphne’s cheeks. “I mean, I think I’d love to dress you one day, instead of the other way.” Rose lifts her head at that.

 

“You’d like to do fashion?” Daphne’s eyes narrow at her. “Yeah,” She admits with a wry smirk. “More than just a walking mannequin, you know.”

 

She backtracks, leaning over to clasp her hands over the younger woman’s lap. “No, no.” She responds emphatically, “You were never that.” She glances up earnestly to the woman, who had been hanging her head low. 

 

Daphne rises her head to meet her gaze, which they maintain for a beat. “Uh, regardless.” She feels the alcohol working through her veins for sure now. She shifts her gaze to the edge of the bed - she swore she kept the binder in a corner. 

 

“What are you looking at?” The amusement returns to Daphne’s eyes as she rests back on the headrest, sinking into the pillows. She stares at her under hooded lids, clearly tipsy. Rose sends her a panicked glance and bends over to grab the leathered binder. 

 

“Oh, that’s nice.” Daphne murmurs as she extends a few fingers to trace the indentations on the surface. “Yes,” Rose concurs, feeling her sobriety return at last. “I think it’s a mix between bison and python, actually - my pet accessories boy found it from this shop.”

 

Daphne hums in response, rubbing circles across the binder and veering dangerously close to her own thumb grasping the package. She feels the familiar panic rise, and straightens her spine to quell it. 

 

She coughs as she carefully unzips the binder, letting the graphite sketches hit the dim lighting. “So, I know that the Oscars are several months - actually a half-year away, but I do have some proposals -”

 

She can hear, nay feel Daphne lose her languid posture. “Excuse me?” Daphne utters, a tad sharp.

 

Rose cringed. She didn’t like those designs then. “Alright, we can start over then - I do liked the dark petal stitching across your neck on this one-”

 

“No, excuse me?”  Genuine confusion seems to belie her words, which makes her look up properly. 

 

“Sorry?” Rose responds, a hand coming up to self consciously rest against her clavicle. 

 

“What, you thought you’re here on  _ business?” _ Rose, feeling herself mute, nods. Daphne exhales with frustration.

 

“So you thought - I invited you to the  _ Mercer,  _ for fuck’s sake, and on a Saturday night -”  Daphne’s cheeks seem to color a violent, and unerringly attractive shade of red. Rose stares, momentarily transfixed.

 

“I can’t believe this.” Daphne, most alarmingly, rises up and seems to take the bottle of  _ Glenfiddich  _ up with her, which really makes her extend an arm and catch her wrist.

 

“Daphne,” Rose turns her face towards hers, hid by her long tresses. Daphne fails to release the resistance against her grip. “I - I really am sorry. I just -”

 

The actress yanks her hand back. “No, it’s okay.” She stalks over to the minibar, places the bottle with a pronounced thud. 

 

Rose worries her lip, leaning back on the ball of her wrists. “I feel that,” she begins, staring up to the ceiling. Tiny doves and laurels adorn the surface, so elegant and needlessly ostentatious. “I have had very few people I would term my peers, outside of work.” A pause, she stares at the lamp now, feeling the stare of the brunette upon her. “It is hard to be considered anything beyond a utility.”

 

She dares to look at the woman now. She’s gazing at her with a mixture of indignation and pity. She shudders slightly. 

 

Daphne shrugs after a moment. “Yeah, I get that. That’s basically my entire career, criminal or otherwise.” A soft exhale of a laugh escapes her lips.

 

Rose smiles gently at that. “Come now,” she pats the space on the bed next to her. “Let’s keep getting pissed on fine Celtic spirits.”

 

Daphne actually snorts in response and follows her commands. “So,” She’s back in her place, but with still a set of her shoulders, almost like a stubborn child.

 

Rose feels something not unlike fondness blooming in her chest. “Now,” she pronounces, grasping the neck of the golden-coloured bottle. “Nine-ball had taught me to play some drinking games last time round, and they were terribly fun -”

 

Daphne scoffs again, taking the shotglass from her; “What, like twenty questions?” Rose brightened. “Exactly like that!” The slender woman actually giggles at that.

 

“No, seriously.” She insists, shifting her legs into a cross legged stance. “I really think it’s a splendid way to get to know each other. Come, now. I’ll go first. What is your favourite thing to do, besides acting?”

 

Daphne cocked an eyebrow as she sipped the glass. “What, like ever? Ah, okay. Um. Well, I like binding books.”  Rose raises her eyebrows. 

 

“Be open-minded,” Daphne scolds, leaning forward. Rose can faintly smell her scent, a mix of ylang-ylang  and frangipani. Effortlessly oriental. “When I was ten and below, I had a grandpa. He was a really old fashioned kind of guy, owned this massive collections of books. So they get like a hundred years old and more, right? And the silverfish tend to come and eat them - so binding their books was a must.”

 

She sits back, her curiousity piqued. Trying to imagine a smaller Daphne, peering across a table of manuscripts, awed. “You were a nerd!”  She realises, placing a placating hand on her knee..

 

Daphne blushes prettily once again. “Oh my god,” she agrees. “You should see my photos, I was like a chipmunk mixed with a baby.” Rose laughs in response. 

 

“Alright, enough embarrassing crap from me. My turn. What is your first time?”

 

\---

 

The night passes in very much a pleasant haze, the two of them challenging each other with more embarrassing experiences in turn. It sends little pleasurable shocks up her spine to catch Daphne sending lingering glances, not even trying to look away when Rose caught her eye. 

 

“This was nice,” Daphne half speaks, half-yawns into her pillow, clearly drunk. Rose, in a similar position, merely nods. 

 

“It’s nice to have friends.” Rose mutters, the crown of her head nestled next to hers’. She can feel wisps of her hair brushing against her cheeks. 

 

“Or something like that,” Daphne mumbles, but the words seem to lead into each other so quickly Rose is unsure if she had just misheard. 

 

\---

 

“We need you.” Lou is in her house. And it is three am.  She drags a palm across the half of her face, hoping desperately that this was a twisted conjuration of her mind. “Okay?” 

 

The blonde looks at her impassively. “Get dressed. Debbie is waiting in the front porch.” 

 

Rose is very, very tired. She had three hours of sleep in as many days, and it is  _ three am.  _ She waits a few beats for the insanity of the situation to catch up with Lou, but of course she hasn’t. She blearily slaps on a dovetailed grey dress and contemplates the merit of extradition back to Ireland. 

 

“What’s going on?” She blearily half murmurs to the women wearing all black and poised languidly in the corridor of her hall. “If you want to burglar some things, I might have some pieces lying around somewhere-”

 

“We need you to design a dress.” Debbie interrupts her, while Lou stares impassively on. She wakes at that, her neck straightening. “Alright.” She says after a pause. “And this couldn’t wait till morning?” 

 

“No, we need you to design two things. A dress and a tuxedo.” Lou cuts in, still not losing that poker face. “By tomorrow.”

 

“Okay.” She repeats uselessly, her mind whirring. “That’s just not possible.”

 

Debbie and Lou both cock their eyebrows in eerily similar time. “Is this about the money?  Because we-” 

 

“No. “ She interrupts, resting an arm on her hip.  “I mean it's physically not possible- you want couture in twenty hours? Even with an entire house that's just not going to happen.”  She's working off the assumption that this for a heist of some kind, or, Christ - “Are you two eloping?” She blurts, feeling her eyes go comically wide.  

 

They keep staring. 

 

\--- 

Daphne can't stop chortling over the phone.  

 

“Shut up,” she mutters, her exasperation muffled by the pin caught between her teeth.  She won't admit it, but the sounds of her gentle exhales between her tinned laughter is oddly soothing,  and serves to calm her down. She ducks to clasp a bow at the cinch of her waist, and quickly unclasps it. 

 

“I mean,  no, no,” Daphne begins after regaining her breath. “You really think that when these people bullied you into talking to me you'd have learned your lesson.” 

 

“No, I haven't, dear.” She mutters absently, stepping back to examine her work.  The sketches are due at ten am, then she's going to bribe Giorgo with a lot of overtime pay, then final fittings. Her heart is pacing to the point she only catches the tail end of the voice still pattering on to her right.  

 

“.... Much as I want to stay for this horrorshow,  got a flight to Tokyo at 4.” 

 

She straightens her spine at that,  trying to spy where her iPhone might be amongst the overwhelming pile of clothes.  “Oh,” she exhales into the phone, trying to hide her panting. “Alright, then - how long will you be away for?” 

 

“Next Friday.” She feels her chest swoop,  realising that the next few weeks were the few off-season days she had left to relax. And she hadn’t planned on staying alone, she realises.  

 

“Oh,” She repeats, after a long pause.  “Will I see you before?” 

 

Daphne chuckles again, a lovely rich sound.  “Yeah, obviously. Check your door.” 

 

Her heart starts to thrum pleasantly as she walks to the door. “You're here?”

 

She swivels the door to find the brunette standing. “Hello there Ms Well,” She drawls, her dainty shoulders draped with a fur coat.  

 

“Why,  pleased to meet you too Ms. Kluger,” she responds as she gives way to let her in. She finds herself fidgeting to gain some space away, feeling her heart throbbing faster. Is she sweating? She feels like an anxious young child, sweat pooling at the back of her neck.

 

She scritches at it absently while pivoting towards the cupboard hidden in the mess of fabric. “Care to have some tea?” Daphne humms her agreement absently. 

 

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Daphne slipping off her coat and her heels, reveal a simple black dress underneath. 

 

That wasn’t ostensibly what one wears to a twelve hour flight, so it picks at her mind. “Care to have some Darjeeling?”   
  
Within a few regrettably short moments she’s found herself sitting primly on the rattan couch she’s called her bed and dinnertable the past few days, passing the brunette a cup of tea.

 

Daphne accepts it, somehow gracefully tucking in her legs while balancing the teacup. “It’s so very European of you, you know? No one else offers me  _ tea.” _ Rose smirks at that, wordlessly glancing at her face. Daphne catches her gaze steadily, a leveled and impossibly placid stare.

 

“Slept well?” The young woman asks innocuously, eyes never flitting from her face. Rose shifts, her discomfort probably showing. She catches herself despairing about her baggy eyes, but shakes it off quickly. 

 

“Uh… no.” She admits, nodding slowly and taking the cup to her lips. 

 

Daphne sips her own slowly, eyes fluttering open when the taste hits her tongue. “It’s lavender.” She notes, briefly pressing the back of her wrist against her mouth. “Did you - did you  _ know  _ that was my favorite?”

 

Rose smiles wide, eyes deceptively open and gaze innocent. Her gaze briefly flicks to the sunlight caught in the top of her hair, immaculately pulled back. “Maybe. I am thorough, after all.” She makes a contented hum and stares out of the window idly.  After a while, “I’m going to murder Debbie and Lou.” 

 

She hears Daphne sputter and catches her place the cup to side. “Yeah, holy shit. I mean, I can’t say I’m surprised. Like, they’re due to get married -”

 

“Excuse me?” Rose interrupts, spine stiffening. “Married?”

 

Daphne rolls her eyes, as if she, the award-winning fashion designer, were somehow dense. 

 

“Rosie. Come on!” She gesticulates to the mannequins in front of her. “A tuxedo? A  _ white dress?”  _

 

“I thought they’re getting into a heist.” Rose muttered defensively. 

 

Daphne scoffs. “No, woman. They’re trapping  _ each other.”  _

 

“Oh.” Rose mutters, feeling very faint. “So they’re… homosexual? For each other?”

 

The actress grins, but falters when Rose maintains her confusion. “Holy shit. You didn’t know.”

 

Rose shakes her head wildly, the breath leaving her body in short inefficient exhales. “No, not really. One could say that I’m old-fashioned-”

 

“And also blind.” Daphne cuts in sharply, eyes raking her face. “You seriously never knew. Rose, they were  _ partners  _ for  _ decades.  _ Lou even got upset at Claude Becker - “

 

“Can’t say I was surprised,” Rose mutters under her breath. 

 

“What?”

 

“No, just.. Alright.” She shifts forward inquiringly. “So - why be private? I mean, why elope to Tucson, of all places?”

 

Daphne leans closer, and Rose is again stymied by her fragrance. “I’m not sure,” She murmurs ponderingly. “I think a secret wedding is rather romantic?” 

 

Her lips pout in a horrifyingly adorable way. “I wonder why they wouldn’t invite  _ me _ , though. I gave them the heist of the century.” 

 

Rose shifts back. “Well, I’m sure since they’re criminals.” She shrugs apologetically, finding a piece of twill to twirl with her fingers. She feels the exhaustion in her bones, and wonders belatedly when to return to work. 

 

“What would you want?” The sharp gaze lands back on her. “For a wedding?” 

 

Rose feels the disquieting impulse to not reply, but ignores it. “I think a small one would be rather nice. Not one of those loud, flamboyant dos. Giorgo would devise my dress, of course. And-” She stutters. “Whomever I choose to wed. I’d hold it in Ireland.”

 

She looks up from her fidgeting to see Daphne staring off into the distance. “That sounds really nice. I’d like that too.”

 

Her eyebrows shoot up her brow. “Well, it’s all just fantasy. Designers such as my likes die brilliant and alone, alas.” With that dismissive notion, she raises herself up.

 

She barely catches indignation flitting across Daphne’s face, but she becomes placid once more. 

 

“Alright, my dear. You need to leave.” Rose continues, regretting the words as they left her mouth. “I need to help some lovely lesbians elope.” 

 

Daphne snorts, her cheer apparently returned, and sashays across to the end of the hotel room. “Call me and tell me all about it, okay?”

 

She finds herself staring after her for a few thoughtful moments, until she shakes herself out of her reverie and goes to work. 


	2. Chapter 2

Rose does not call. Instead, she sleeps. 

 

She wakes up on the following Sunday after having collapsed from exhaustion, sleeping a good ten hours. The only reason why she even wakes up is that her terrier licks the side of her face. She opens her eyes to excessive moisture on her chin and cheek.

 

She yawningly strides across her bedroom to dispense some dog food. “Alright, Elsie. You can quit your yapping now.” The little dog yips excitedly, circling around her legs before returning to the bowl.

  
She sits on her table, idly watching the sun stain the sky russet gold. The hue reminds her of the trimmings of Daphne’s last dress to her press kit. Speaking of which, she checked her watch to see the time. It must be six in Tokyo.

 

The buzzing startles her out of her reverie. “Hello,” she half-yawns, chasing exhaustion away with a sip of her coffee. 

 

“Hello, sleepyhead.” A sultry voice teases her. She visibly perks up, finding herself self-consciously batting at her hair. “Hello, Ms. Kluger,” she teases gently back, letting her head fall back against the chair. 

 

“How is Tokyo?” She continues, wincing slightly as the too-hot tea burns the tip of her tongue. 

She hears a dramatic sigh and some shuffling. Rose imagines Daphne resting her head against the window, noticing the bustle of people and cars below.

 

“I enjoy doing the shoots for SK-II, but I really don’t like the food. So-so, I guess.” Rose hums sympathetically in response. 

 

They fall into silence, and Rose tries to quell her anxiety by thinking of what to say. Quick, how does one entertain a world-famous actress? “Do you miss me?” Daphne asks coyly, abruptly breaking her inner monologue.

 

She blinks, finding her breathing becoming heavier. “Perhaps,” she admits softly, tracing an errant circle upon the grain of her table. Then, summoning courage, “Do you miss me?” She boldly asks.

 

Daphne laughs again, and it loosens her spine. “ _ Maybe _ . Plenty of eccentric designers here too.” She teases, yet her confirmation sends an illicit thrill.

 

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I’ve met these designers. Their style is rather… spartan for my taste.” She tosses back airily, grinning.

 

“Are you saying you’re better than them, Ms. Weil?”

 

“I think I would know how to dress you better.” Rose answers honestly, and realises the double entendre. She clears her throat. 

 

The actress seems to hum meaningfully at that. “How would you dress me?” 

 

_ I would rather undress you,  _ she thinks to herself, jolting herself with the errant thought. Heart racing, she replies, “You’re old world elegance, with an unassailable charm. A classic dress that flares daringly, and maybe a Victorian collar on your daring days.”

 

“Like your ‘99 Vogue shoot?” Daphne responds, piqued. 

 

“Yes,” her mouth falls open, surprised. “How do you remember that?”

 

She can hear her smile. “You forgot why I chose you for the Met Ball. I’ve followed you for years.”

 

So Lou and Debbie had said, but she scarcely believed it. “Well you have a mutual admirer in me,” Rose murmurs, with too much fondness. She’s brought out from the pleasant haze as she hears loud scratching from the legs of her table. 

 

She sighs. “Alright, Elsie,” she gathers her terrier, who nips at her face with needy kisses. 

 

“Is that a dog on the phone? Hold on, is that  _ your  _ dog?”

 

Rose scoffs. “Yes, it’s Elsie. Once you return on Saturday, you can give this clingy beast all the attention she craves.” She boops Elsie’s nose, who barks loudly in response.

 

Daphne coos, hearing her yipping. “Aww, she sounds  _ adorable.  _ Seems like I have to visit you, then.” Her voice upturns in the inflection of a question, and Rose suppresses a smile.

 

“If you insist,” Rose replies. 

 

“I’m glad I have the honor,” the actress drawls. “Listen, watch my interview on CNN at 1pm. I gotta go now,”

 

Rose hums in assent, resting the phone down and staring at her dog. Elsie cocked her head in curiosity.

 

“I’ve fallen deep, haven’t I, Elsie,” she mutters, scritching at the back of her ears. 

 

\---

 

“I would consider my style a mixture of old-world elegance and millenial charm,” Daphne’s on the screen, confidently parroting her words on  _ Amanpour _ .   That pleases her and surprises her, in turn, but what sends her sitting up in her seat is what the brunette says next.

 

“So what’s next for Daphne Kluger?” The reporter asks, a smug Becker-type that Rose doesn’t take to well. “Love, career?”

 

“Career, actually,” Daphne smoothly brushes him off, crossing her legs. “I’ve actually decided on a new partnership with  _ Weil Fashion,  _ starting with the Spring/Summer Fashion Week this year.”

 

Rose stares at the screen. 

 

She turns the TV off, inhaling deeply as she anticipates the rising tide of anxiety crawling up her bones. 

 

As if on cue, her phone rings loudly. 

 

“Hello?” Rose answers calmly, bracing herself for impact. 

 

“ _ I will quit.”  _ Giorgio responds furiously, considerably less calm. “ _ What is the point of me tiding this brand through not  _ **_one,_ ** _ but  _ **_two_ ** _ financial crises, Rose?” _

 

She sighs. “Giorgio-”

 

“ _ I helped you hide from the Russians. The Russians, Rose.” _

 

“Giorgio, would you please - “

 

“ _ And you land an A-list actress, and earn mysteriously large amounts to save our brand. Still nothing.”  _

 

“Giorgio!” She cuts him off sharply, pressing her fingers against her temple. “I did  _ not  _ ask for this. I was not even informed - “

 

“ _ Actual bullshit- “ _

 

“Daphne is a very good friend,” Rose cuts him off warningly. “I have cemented quite deep ties with her, but she has regretted to let me know her interests in my business.”

 

_ “What will a  _ bambina  _ like her know to dress?” _

 

She ignores the flare of anger rising in her chest. “Ms. Kluger has possessed quite a keen eye for fashion,” she replies coldly. “And I am sure we can spin this, if not into a direct partnership, a much more lucrative sponsorship deal for our brand.”

 

Giorgio breathes heavily over the phone, mulling over her words. “ _ Alright, _ cara.  _ You will talk to her and let me know.” _

 

She disconnects the call with relief. 

 

\---

 

“Are you sure about this?” Rose asks carefully, gripping her fork tightly. They’ve met at  _ Le Bernardin,  _ the same restaurant that Rose first approached Daphne for a partnership. The symbolism isn’t lost on her, but it deepens the undercurrent of anxiety following her all week.

 

“Sure about the entrees? Eh, not really,” Daphne’s eyes flick back to her. She’s stunning, as usually, wearing a floral blouse and turquoise skirt with a sinfully high sidecut. 

 

Rose opts to down another flute of champagne. “I’m fine with anything you order,” she responds as she wills for the alcohol to take effect. The brunette responds with a sweet smile, and orders two sets of lobster. 

 

Daphne smiles and rests her chin on her clasped hands. “So. I’m really excited about this relationship.”

 

The older woman returns her smile hesitantly. “Are you - are you actually serious about designing with me?” She tries again, now abusing the tablecloth with her tight grip. 

 

Daphne’s smile disappears. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

 

“No, I mean -” She fumbles, jerking her body forward. “I think you might be, possibly, in some capacity - rather busy for a full partnership?”

 

Her sharp gaze descends into a dark frown. “No, I told you, and the whole world, actually, that I want to dedicate the next six months to you… and your brand.”  She’s stymied by that. 

 

The actress looks down, then, pondering Rose’s words. “Are you worried I’m not capable?”

 

Rose’s eyes widen in panic. “No!” She rushes to reassure. “No, heavens, no. I don’t think that at all. I think you have excellent taste.” Daphne glows in the diffuse of her praise.

 

She leans back, mollified. Daphne circles the rim of her wineglass. “So, what’s the problem?”

 

Rose steeples her fingers, sighing as she struggles to articulate. “I am known to be, - although Giorgio will certainly say more - a  _ difficult  _ partner.”

 

“I like that.” Daphne cuts her off, staring up at her earnestly. “The challenge, having different creative visions, isn’t that the inherent struggle of it?”

 

She can’t argue that. “Yes, but -”

 

“Are you worried about my inexperience? Because the final decision will go to you.” 

 

Rose cocks her head in disbelief.

 

Daphne rolls her eyes. “Okay, not  _ final final  _ \- but you’re the one with technical expertise. Consider me as your  _ muse,  _ I’ll just ideate and throw them at the wall and see what sticks.”

 

Rose exhales. The waiter arrives, taking away their aperitifs. They sit in uneasy silence, as Daphne lets Rose turn over her words. 

 

“Alright.” She admits in great defeat.

 

Daphne shoots her a blinding grin. “Really? You think it’s a good idea?” She asks, leaning forward on her elbows.

 

“No, I really do think it’s ridiculous. But yes, why not. I’ve very little to lose.”

 

Daphne’s grinning so hard Rose is sure it will hurt. “You’re not going to regret this.” 

 

\---

 

Giorgio is grinning like a shark.

 

Or at least, that is what it appears to Rose, who had known him since they were fresh-faced design students in Milan. 

 

“Why is he looking at me like that,” Daphne whispers as she tosses her a sidelong glance. 

 

“I have no idea,” Rose murmurs through the corner of her mouth, throwing a smile as they round the corner into Giorgio’s office. 

“Nice to meet you, Giorgio,” Daphne summons her public charm and blows air on both of his cheeks. 

 

The older, balding man’s face was stretched unnaturally wide still. “ _ Grazie, mi amore.  _ I am so honored to have your presence in our couture-house. Rose has told me  _ so much  _ about you.”

 

Rose glares at him quickly, while fashioning her face into a placid smile when Daphne sends her a look. 

 

“Really, now?” Daphne drawls inquiringly, her eyes sparkling. 

 

“Oh, yes, you’re her favorite topic of discussion -  _ dios,  _ that hurts.” Rose had unsubtly moved a sewing table to land on his foresole, and she sends him a grim smile. 

 

Daphne fails to hide a grin, while Giorgio overcomes his pain and dusts his hands. “Now, let’s get to work - I’ve heard you had some sketches?”

 

Rose lets them talk animatedly in front of her, her mind casually drifting away. Daphne had shown her the sketches that morning in her limousine, and Rose had already vetoed those that went against  _ Weil’s  _ creative vision. 

 

She instead finds herself unwittingly drawn to the curve of Daphne’s lips as she’s absorbed in discussion with her right-hand, the way her cheeks color slightly in laughter as Giorgio flirts with her. She would be concerned if the man wasn’t excessively homosexual. 

 

“-are good, right, Rose?” She blinks and finds two inquiring gazes landing on her. She flickers down to the design laid across the table. 

 

She coughs indelicately. “Yes, yes. I liked this one best, actually - it could be in-line with our  _ Storm  _ theme for the Week.” 

 

Daphne grins, self-satisfied, and returns to discuss with Giorgio. The older man listens attentively, but he sends her a thoughtful gaze before returning to the issue.

 

He’s read her clearly across two decades of friendship, so her heart increases in pace. Would Giorgio know? 

 

She pushes the thoughts aside, as she decides to continue with the work. Fashion, was the first and foremost love of her life, and it was mere fancy to consider love otherwise. 

 

\---

 

She feels trapped. She’s had this notion since Kluger announced their oddball partnership weeks before. She’s had this nagging dissatisfaction prickling under her skin, disturbing her peace of mind from fittings to creative meetings.

 

_ Rose  _ is expanding beyond her imagination, setting up offices in Upper Manhattan and one just launching in Seoul. She can finally see her vision crystallizing; a legacy cemented into an enduring ethos and brand. And she owed its success largely to the actress who’d requested to dine with her tonight. She should be ecstatic, indeed a part of her is just that. But another part of her feels… wanting. Longing for some absurd possibility. 

 

They’ve opted for a smaller restaurant, closed entirely for their celebrity clientele. While incredibly flattering, the silence surrounding the place is deafening.

 

She coughs delicately. Daphne is perusing the menu with her trademark intensity, casually ordering their entrees once again. 

 

“What are you thinking about?” Daphne asks curiously, leaning back. 

 

“Nothing,” she replied unconvincingly. Truthfully, she was pondering whether it was too late to discreetly pop one more Xanax into her mouth.

 

“Liar,” Daphne says, but the barb soothes more than pricks.  She grins affectionately. “Anything - or anyone in particular on your mind?”

 

“I was thinking about you, actually.” She begins honestly, folding and unfolding the napkin placed on her lap. “Are you happy with this partnership?”

 

Daphne’s face falls. “Why do you do these things?” She huffs, chin upturned high. 

 

She blinks. “Do what?” She says, baffled.

 

“Keep -  _ checking in on me.”  _ She waves her hands at her. Rose continues staring at her, as if she had grown another head.

 

“It’s not just you, though, god.” She continues, either unaware or ignorant of Rose opening her mouth. “It’s like my agent, my own goddamn mother, constantly asking me - ‘ _ Are you sure about this, Daphne darling?’ _ ” She continues, in a mocking high voice.

 

Rose finds a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Maybe they are unaware of how truly competent you are.”

 

Daphne blushes, but she is unclear whether it is an after-effect of her anger. “ _ Thanks.  _ But still -” 

The entree arrives, and the brunette stabs at the Michelin-starred food viciously. 

“You would think,” she takes an unwholesomely large bite into her mouth, chewing loudly. “I would know - if mmphhh, mmmph, mmmph,”

 

Rose can’t keep up the feint any longer. Her mouth stretches into a wide grin. “Is this how an Oscar-winning actress behaves?” She teases, half-serious.

 

She swallows, levelling her with a glare. “ _ Oscar-nominated.”  _ She sniffs, daintily sipping her wine as if she wasn’t wolfing her food seconds before. 

 

“Of course,” she replies fondly.  Daphne ducks her head and tucks her hair at that, and Rose tilts her head in response. “I think you’re a fantastic partner,” she says softly, and means it. Despite her private misgivings, Daphne had been eager to learn and patient to listen to Rose’s rambling. She bounced off Giorgo and her quite well, balancing her at-times manic tendences with Giorgio’s flamboyance. She was  _ level-headed _ , an attribute she wouldn’t have readily given to Daphne Kluger.

 

The brunette tosses her a shy smile. “Although, you know,” she quips dryly. “I really miss having a personal life.”

 

“What’s that, dear?”

 

Daphne rolls her eyes. “Stop. I’m pretty sure even  _ you  _ need to let your hair down. Actually, I just went to a quaint cocktail party yesterday.” She divulges, leaning forward.

 

Rose cocks her eyebrow. “Oh?” She responds, feeling unease pooling in her stomach.

 

“Yes, it was sponsoring one of those Banksy-type artists. And guess who I saw -”

 

“Claude Becker.” Rose answers for her tonelessly. She’d read the news earlier, half-hoped it was tabloid lies. 

 

“ _ Yes.”  _ Daphne giggles in delight. “Although, you know prison didn’t really mess him up too bad.”

 

She looks down, unable to face her. “So, did you rekindle flames?” She asks, wincing inside. 

 

The wince must show, because Daphne is peering at her strangely. “What?” 

 

She grimaces deeper, realises that she must elucidate this. Perhaps it would hasten the pain. “Did you - I don’t know, agree to resume your courtship?”

 

Daphne’s eyes flash. “What?! No, of-fucking course not.” 

 

She nods jerkily, wondering how to appear not too relieved. “Ah, good.”

 

Daphne has opted to ignore her response. “Rosie, the man  _ stole the Touissaint.” _ She leans in to whisper this viciously, as if she was not an accomplice in this crime. 

 

“Is that the only reason?” She blurts out. She leans back, mortified. She needs to - gods, Giorgio was right, she had no ‘game’, as he put it. 

 

Daphne scans her face. “Well,” she begins slowly. She looks down. “Although I admit he and I enjoyed a very brief, very passionate romance…” She trails off, absorbed in thoughts no doubt of their consuming affair.

 

Rose shifts uneasily. “Ah,” she says again uselessly, her stomach bottoming out. The silence stretches, and becomes awkward. 

 

The younger woman appears to take notice. “Alas, it’s in the past.” She shrugs self-effacingly, a devastatingly adorable gesture. It does not improve her mood at all. 

 

The waiter serves the dessert, a delicacy made from passionfruit and Phillippine mango. She stares at it in agonised quiet. 

 

She has, and always been aware of the reality of…  _ whatever  _ Daphne and she were trapped within. She, an ageing haggard woman with passing fancy for fashion. She had known it was only a matter of time before a younger, more dashing man would court Daphne. This was not new to Rose, but presented so bleakly in front of her, it sent her insides clenching. 

 

Daphne appears unperturbed by her stiff posture, opting to serve a large dollop on both of their plates. “Thank you,” she says robotically. She spies Daphne take a spoon and capture it with her mouth.

 

It was too much. “I think, I must leave.” She announces abruptly, motioning to the waiter to gather her valet keys. 

 

“Wait- what?”

 

She flinches, for the third time this evening. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Kluger. I really must take my leave, right now. Circumstances - at home -  _ private  _ ones compel me.” The lie seems pathetic even in her ears, but she ignores it in the face of her chest rapidly constricting. 

 

“Carry on!” She doesn’t wait for a response, only stands up and practically runs out of the nearest exit. 

 

The threat of another attack was near, her breath coming out in quick, inefficient gasps. She shuffles herself to the side of a dumpster, muttering expletives under her breath. 

 

She forces her trembling fingers to gather the yellow pills, popping and dry-swallowing them as quickly as she could. 

 

After a few, fraught seconds the pills do their work and she slumps against the grimy back-alley. 

The panic is quickly replaced by tears, stinging at the corner of her eyelids. 

 

She was idiotic. She presses her palms against her eyes, intent on shutting the world.

 

“Ms.  _ Kluger?  _ Really?” 

 

Her eyes flutter open, and she’s subjected to the view of divinely long legs. She sighs, looking up. 

 

Daphne glares back at her, nostrils flaring slightly. “What the hell happened to you?” 

 

She purses her own lips, feeling internally exhausted. “I’m sorry,” she admits weakly. She steps aside and wipes the remnants of the tears from her face, feels her obsidian necklace jostle as she looks in her satchel for a handkerchief.

 

“You’re damn right you should be.” Daphne retorts, but refusing to exit her field of vision, stepping right in front of her. 

 

She refuses to look up, blowing her nose pathetically into a patterned handkerchief. 

 

“What happened to you?” She repeats, stepping into her space, her voice tempered by concern. 

 

She looks up, keen to avoid her penetrating gaze. “I… I had a panic attack.” She admits with great difficulty, throat swallowing reflexively.

 

“Oh, darling.” She looks at her in surprise. But before she can respond, the taller brunette wraps her arms around her waist, nestling her face upon her shoulder.

 

She stands stock-still, unable to process what was happening to her. But eventually, her arms stop hanging limply by her side and mimic Daphne and curl around her waist.

 

She feels the tears pricking at her eyes again. “I’m sorry,” she says once again, and means it.

 

“Don’t,” Daphne murmurs into her shoulder, rubbing her back in soothing circles. “I’m just frustrated that you walked out on me.”

 

She pulls back, and attempts a watery smile. “Not every day one walks out on the great Daphne Kluger, huh?”

Daphne bites her lip. “Stop it,” she shushes, refusing to extract her arms from her waist. “What set it off?” She asks.

 

Rose exhales. “I’d… rather not say.” She says, stepping back from the embrace.

 

The hurt flickers across Daphne’s expression. “I’d rather not burden you with the details,” Rose rushes to reassure, giving her a hopeful smile. “Perhaps in the future.”

 

Daphne’s nostrils flare in irritation. “Okay.” She gives her a piercing stare. She squares her shoulders. Was she getting ready to box her? She wasn’t entirely sure. 

 

“What do you see behind you, Rosie.”

 

She looks behind furtively. “A dumpster.”

 

Daphne huffs. “No, behind the dumpster. Jesus fucking Christ.”

 

“A restaurant,” she responds hesitantly. 

 

She nods. “Right, a restaurant that I  _ bought out for you.”  _

 

“I don’t quite understand where this is going.” She admits. 

 

She cuts her off. “Rose, have I worked on a single film since I joined your brand?”

 

She furrows her brows, feeling the Xanax wear off. “No, not really. But that’s because you made a commitment to-”

 

“I made a commitment to your brand. To  _ you.”  _ She announces, spreading her arms. She suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. Thespians and their theatrics.

 

“But you wanted to explore fashion,” she responds, grasping vaguely at what the woman was driving at. 

 

“I wanted to explore it with  _ you.  _ Not just because you’re a designer I’ve adored since I was a dweeb, but because I  _ like you. _ I like spending time with you, woman.”

 

Her voice quells in intensity. “I care about you.” She concludes.

 

Rose is incredibly lost. “You adored me?” She sputters, stepping forward.. 

 

It’s Daphne’s turn to roll her eyes. “Yeah, maybe.” She responds, averting her eyes. 

 

“You care about me,” she echoes, walking closer to her. It was strange. Something about this women sent her in the throes of anxiety one second, and emboldened her the next. 

 

“Yep.” The abbreviation was strange, the hint of country-girl cracking through her curated elegance. Daphne stares at her with frank vulnerability. 

 

“Why?” She asks, because she must know. 

 

Daphne refuses to waver from her gaze. 

 

“I don’t know.” 


End file.
